The Laughter of Carthage (73 page)

The Military Police hut was a dark green building with red insignia. I banged on the door. A corporal in an ordinary uniform jacket but wearing a khaki kilt, opened up. He had the familiar white armband. He said something mysterious and when I cocked my head and asked him to repeat it, said slowly, as if to a moron, ‘And what can I do for you, sir?’ I told him my wife, an English woman, was missing in the town. He became friendlier and brightened. ‘Mrs Pyatnitski, sir? She was last seen at the
Shaharazaad
cabaret around midnight. Our people are still trying to trace her, but you can’t imagine what it’s like. There are a thousand private wars going on here. Whites against Reds. Greek Orthodox against Turkish Muslims, Oofs against Lazis, Armenians against Georgians, Turks against Armenians, this bunch of anarchists against that bunch of anarchists, not to mention the family feuds.’

‘My wife couldn’t be involved in anything like that. She’s never been to Batoum before. She has no political connections.’

‘She’s British, sir. That’s enough for some of these wallahs. But we think she just went joyriding with a party of people from the nightclub. Some of the Russian officers are a bit wild, you know. Maybe they went up into the ruins.’ He pointed towards the hills, assuring me I should have any news immediately he received it. I made my way back to the ship. A light drizzle had begun to fall. The illusion was thoroughly destroyed. I listened to the sound of raindrops striking the big leaves of the palms like machine-gun fire. My impulse was to rush to the old quarter and begin my own search, but that would mean leaving the ship. I dared not risk being absent if the Military Police had anything to report. I bemoaned my carnal selfishness which had led me from her side. What must these people think of me? In their eyes I had deserted my own wife and returned with another woman. Ashamed and depressed, I climbed back aboard. But I could not bring myself to leave the rail near the gangplank. When the old nanyana came up to inform me the Baroness wished to know where I was I impatiently told her Mrs Cornelius was missing and I could not come. Eventually, after waiting two hours and seeing all the guns unloaded and borne away in a British army lorry, I went hastily to Leda’s cabin. She was still in her bunk, with servant and child paying attendance. ‘My poor friend,’ she said. ‘Your wife?’

‘No news. How are you feeling?’

‘Hernikof was a sweet, vulnerable man. So good to his people. Why should he have been murdered? He was like my husband. They did no harm. It’s so horrible . . .’ And she began to weep.

‘One does not have to do harm to become a symbol of another’s hatred,’ I said.

‘I think the Whites killed him,’ she whispered. ‘The Reds killed my husband and the Whites killed Hernikof. It’s as senseless as that.’

‘There’s no evidence. Bolshevik friends could as easily have turned against him if, say, he refused them money. Or some extremist Zionists. Who knows what his business was in Batoum? Or Turks. In Russia you’re no longer murdered for any particular reason. It could have been a simple mistake. Count yourself lucky you’re still alive.’ But I failed to comfort her. She remained agitated. ‘What of Mr Bragg?’ she asked. ‘Still not back?’

‘So I gather.’ Formally I kissed her hand, feeling unjust resentment towards her for the time she was taking. ‘You should try to sleep. Get some more brandy. I’ll look in as soon as I can.’ I returned to the quayside where Mr Larkin patiently checked his clipboard. The ship was thoroughly cleaned and new cargo was being loaded. ‘It’s a rum go, Mr Pyatnitski. There seems to have been a brawl at the
Shaharazaad
last night. Mrs Cornelius was insulted. Jack went to her aid. Then a general melee. A raid by the Russian gendarmes. Most of the customers got away. No bodies were found so that’s one good sign. As for old Hernikof, it seems he was there for a while, too. Then he left with a couple of Cossacks, or they might have been local tribesmen.’

I was not interested in Hernikof. Why should I care if he had lost his life while engaging in some shady mercenary transaction? Doubtless he had considered me a useless
luftmentsh
of the kind which abounds in Odessa; I could guess from his eyes. Well, those eyes would never accuse me again. This is not to say that I approved of the manner in which he met his death. I might have cared about that more if I were not terrified for Mrs Cornelius. Had she survived the entire Revolution and Civil War only to be abducted by Caucasian tribesmen? Had she been raped and killed in some remote mountain village? I had heard such tales since I was a child. The Caucasian brigands notoriously owed allegiance to nothing save their own small community. They might claim to be Moslems or Christians, Reds or Whites, when whim or expediency directed, but they were at root nothing more than heartless thieves. I looked through the rain, beyond the town to the great peaks. If it proved she had been carried off, I would spend every kopek to raise an army of mounted men. I had ridden with Cossacks and anarchists and could prove myself as tough as any of them and infinitely more cunning. I was frequently underestimated in this sphere. People knew me as an artist, an intellectual, a man of words. But in my day I was also a man of deeds. I was determined not to lose Mrs Cornelius as I had lost Esmé. A woman of enormous natural goodness, she threw too much of herself away on feckless creatures who never appreciated her. I wondered if Jack Bragg was in trouble. Perhaps she was helping him. I went to the saloon for a drink. Mr Thompson followed me in. ‘Let me buy you a whisky.’ He sat me down near the portholes so I could look out at the quayside while he went to the makeshift bar. He returned with our drinks. He was at a loose end while the ship was in port. His stokers were cleaning boilers and engine-room. ‘There’s a dull enough explanation waiting for all this,’ he said. ‘You’ve a brilliant imagination and it’s a wonderful thing. But at times like this I’d think it could be your worst enemy.’

I barely listened to him. While he droned on in this conventional frame I continued to sift through the few facts I had. Thompson was assuming, like the Baroness, that Jack Bragg and Mrs Cornelius were somehow romantically involved. I was no fool; I knew exactly what they were thinking. I saw no point in disputing this foolishness. Mrs Cornelius was always a woman of honour. She embodied the great English virtues. For me, when she died, England died. Nothing remains but mud and old stones over which the bastard races of a hundred petty nations squabble. The spirit of England flew away in 1945 when the Socialists broke apart the British Empire. I witnessed it all. I have more authority than bearded schoolteachers with insane eyes and red mouths screaming at me from pedestals, those
bezdusny!
I have seen their breed before. Civilisation is dying, nation by nation, piece by piece. The omens are everywhere: In the cracked paving-stones, the fallen railings, the graffiti-smeared walls. The omens are as loud as the voice of God. Who needs to tease out subtleties and nuances? That is where too many people go wrong. Mr Thompson detected an affair. I detected only jolly friendship and kindness. Is it better to see the obscure vice or the obvious virtue?

Those who belittle Mrs Cornelius’s greatness merely betray the smallness of their own souls. But I am sure Thompson meant well. He said nothing outright as he tried to ease my anxiety. While ashore he had found a few copies of some English illustrated weeklies,
The Sphere, Illustrated London News, Pall Mall
and so on. In them were pictures of new gigantic flying boats and airships which planned transatlantic crossings. With the Great War’s end, there seemed a fresh spirit of optimism in England. There were pages of smiling young pilots climbing onto the bright fuselages of monstrous aeroplanes, sketches of aerial cruisers with double-hulls and vast numbers of propellers and wings which in future might carry the mail across the Empire. Even in my anxiety for Mrs Cornelius I was captured by the excitement. ‘There’s people with money to spend on new inventions,’ said Thompson. ‘None of these things are cheap to build. You must remember to be cautious, like Mr Edison, and form a proper company. Too many innocent boys have been cheated in the past.’ It was strange how he thought me a boy. I had not been that since Kerenski elected himself to power. Yet there were youths in England of my own age who had never slept with a woman, who had not even left school. In that respect at least I had an advantage, but none of my dreams could be realised without Mrs Cornelius. I looked to where, in the last of the afternoon light, Mr Larkin was checking the documents of new arrivals. I became even more alarmed. The ship must soon be due to sail.

Mr Thompson confirmed this, in the morning. ‘They’re expecting more trouble here. That bomb on the tanker was just the opening incident, I gather.’

I decided, in spite of the danger, to take our luggage off the ship while I pursued my private investigation. The
Rio Cruz
would not leave until ten the next day. At dawn, if Mrs Cornelius had not been found, I would disembark. As I finished my drink the door of the saloon opened and the pale Baroness entered. ‘Have you heard anything?’ She sat down with a nod of thanks as Mr Thompson drew back the chair for her. Mr Thompson did not understand our Russian. ‘Can I fetch you something to drink. Baroness? Or a cup of tea?’

‘Some brandy, thank you.’ While the engineer returned to the bar she leaned forward. ‘I could not stay away. What can I do to help?’ She would cheerfully have seen Mrs Cornelius dead, yet was trying her best to be humane. I appreciated her self-control. ‘I shall have to go ashore if there’s any prospect of the ship leaving without her.’

‘Then I shall go. too.’

‘That’s impossible. There’s Kitty. You have your duty. I have mine.’

‘All our duties can surely be reconciled.’

I did not argue with her. If Mrs Cornelius had been taken away from Batoum and I had to organise an expedition, Leda would be an impediment. There would be no room for love-making. It would be a time for bullets and fast-firing carbines.

I lifted my head. Machine-guns sounded from the old quarter, near the bazaar. Two armoured-cars roared along the Boulevard, their sirens honking like geese. I heard one small explosion, then two larger ones. Smoke and flames began to rise behind the Cathedral. There were shouts. I rose to my feet, looking questioningly at Mr Thompson who said, it’s just the usual trouble.’

Batoum was no longer a sanctuary. She had become a sinister trap; one of those beautiful gardens in medieval Romance designed by a sorceress to lure unwary knights. My instinctive terror of the East returned. It had been folly to believe the illusion. Where I had admired the domes of churches I now saw, in rainy twilight, the sinister outlines of Saracen mosques. Where I had been comforted by the smart discipline of British Tommies. I detected armed and turbaned figures hiding in every shadow. Shouts came from the quayside. A large covered navy truck began to pull up beside our little barricade. I thought it was the police. I left the saloon and was halfway down the gangplank when an electric torch flashed suddenly in my eyes. Blinded for a moment, I stumbled and almost fell through the ropes. As I recovered I saw figures standing near the truck, is there any news?’

‘Blimey,’ said a familiar voice, ‘it’s Ivan.’

Mrs Cornelius seemed hurt. She was supported by two officers. I rushed up to her. ‘Are you wounded? Was it the tribesmen?’

‘Tribesmen? Do wot? Natives, yer mean?’ She was baffled. I realised at last that she was drunk. ‘Sorry, Ive. Lorst track o’ ther time, didn’t I. Jack woz good enough ter. . .’

A dishevelled Jack Bragg stood behind her staring glumly at me. ‘Spot of bother, Mr Pyatnitski, with some Georgian irregulars who took a fancy to your missus. The upshot was they carried us off. I was drugged, I think. Mrs Pyatnitski was drugged, too, weren’t you Mrs Pyatnitski.’

‘Drugged blind,’ she agreed.

Jack Bragg’s face was almost a parody of embarrassment and anxiety. ‘We managed to escape this morning. But we got lost up-country.’ He made a vague gesture towards the wooded hills. ‘A patrol found us and brought us back. Luckily. We’re a bit wet.’

‘He has been frantic.’ We all looked up at the ship. It was the Baroness. I had not known she spoke such clear English. She leaned forward on the rail, into the lamplight. She was a picture by Mucha, a Slavic angel. ‘Poor Mr Pyatnitski has spent the entire day trying to trace you.’

‘I think you’d better get aboard in a hurry, Bragg.’ An invisible Captain Monier-Williams spoke from the bridge. He sounded more than a little angry.

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Bragg turned to Mrs Cornelius. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘Right as rain,’ she said. ‘But could do wiv a dryin’ orf!’ Absently, she reached into her décolletage and removed a large black glove. ‘Where the ‘ell did that come from?’

Jack Bragg ran up the gangplank to make his peace with the captain. I felt sorry for him. He had suffered in a noble cause. Mrs Cornelius kissed the two young officers on their cheeks, wished them a cheerful goodnight, and leaning heavily on me began to climb the plank. ‘Nick o’ time as usual, eh, Ivan?’